Lost in Bitterness

Liz pulled the fur around her ears, protecting them from the bitter wind. The temperature had dropped since they’d been in the building. They stood, looking at the vast parking lot, trying to recall where they’d parked. Bill groped his leather gloves, awkwardly pushing his right hand fingers into their appropriate niches.

“I think we’re down here,” Bill said, pointing to the left. “Damn glove,” he grumbled as he dropped it onto the snow covered pavement.

Just as Bill bent and picked it up, an elderly woman dove at him, trying to seize the glove. She yelled, “Them are my gloves! You stole ‘em!” She tumbled onto the snow, losing the red-brimmed cap from her head.

Liz stooped, reaching for the woman, but she snatched back her cold, bare hand. “You’ll never get away with it!”

“Come on, Liz. She’s damn crazy.”

“But, we should--” Liz pressed, but Bill pulled her away. He looked back at the woman’s frail face staring blankly at him.

Snow was just beginning to fall when they reached the car. Bill drove out of the lot and headed toward 81N, recapping his appointment.

“Damn city doctor didn’t know anymore than doc in town--wasted trip.”

Suddenly, they drove into a wall of white. Snow spun fiercely, darting at the car from every direction; the road was invisible.

“If you’d checked the local weather--” Liz began.

“You know I don’t watch those networks-- damn liberals anyway.”

Safe at home the next day, Liz brought Bill the morning newspaper.

“I thought I canceled that subscription- damn Commie writers,” he scorned, opening the front page. Top billing was a story of a missing elderly woman found dead in a city parking lot. Bill stared blankly at the photo of an old woman in a red-brimmed hat.



WC: 300